TURNING POINT
a book about real transitions into other lives
My name is ZodiHo. I am a conduit.
Sometimes at night, I leave.
In a dream — but fully conscious — I enter another body, another life, on the other side of the world.
This is not a vision. Not imagination. I feel the other body, hear the thoughts, live through the events — as if it were my own life.
I arrive at the moment when everything is on the edge:
fear, pain, isolation — a decision must be made, or everything could be lost.
I don’t know who this person is. But I know what needs to be done.
I speak through them. I act.
And then I disappear.
TURNING POINT
is a real book about real moments of human rescue.
Each chapter is one transition. One moment where stepping in changed everything.
A woman frozen in fear. A girl who was never heard. A teenager one step from ending it all.
I don’t choose where I go — I’m sent where help is needed.
These transitions happen rarely — sometimes once a month, sometimes more often.
And each one becomes a Turning Point — for the person, for their fate, and for me.
This is the first book in a growing series.
You can read the prologue and first chapters here.
And if something in these stories resonates with you —
you didn’t find this book by accident.
To the Reader
Have you ever felt it—
in a critical moment, when everything inside you shakes,
when fear freezes your breath,
when the step you need to take feels far beyond your strength?
You stand there, silent, in pain,
face to face with someone—or something—
and you know:
you won’t make it.
You won’t speak.
You won’t leave.
You won’t defend yourself, admit the truth, or bring it to an end.
But then—
it’s as if something else takes over.
Not you, exactly, but something within you.
Firm. Clear. Unshakable.
Your mind steps aside.
A soft fog rolls in. Numbness.
And you do what you thought you couldn’t.
The word escapes your lips.
Your hand moves.
A path opens.
Then—silence.
And when it’s over, a thought arrives:
How did that happen? That wasn’t me...
And yet—
it feels like everything is finally right.
Like something essential just clicked into place.
Does it feel familiar?
Prologue
I live in the United States.
A quiet life, outwardly no different from thousands of others.
But at night, I travel.
This is not a dream. Not a trick of the mind.
I shift into other bodies, other lives, on the other side of the world.
Always—at the very edge.
At the moment when a person stands on the brink.
Before a decision. Before a step they fear to take—or don’t yet understand they must.
But without it, their life won’t turn the way it’s meant to.
It’s not my will. I don’t choose. I don’t seek it out.
One night, I simply walk into the fog.
Light. Barely there.
And then I’m moving.
In someone else’s body.
Sometimes I arrive knowing exactly what to do.
Sometimes I begin to understand along the way.
I don’t know the name of the one living this life.
I don’t know their past.
Sometimes, I don’t even speak their language.
But I know their feelings.
I know their pain, their love, their fear—
as if I’d lived with them their whole life,
or for a single, searing fragment of it.
I come for a short time.
An hour, two. Sometimes just a moment.
To say something that matters.
To take action.
To escape danger.
To find someone.
To stop—or to push them forward.
To say “yes.”
To say “no.”
To say “I love you.”
And then I return.
Wake in my own bed.
Calm. Fulfilled.
It’s done.
And no one will know.
No one will remember.
Except me.
This is the Turning Point.
And there have been hundreds.
***
It all began a few years ago—
when I started paying attention to strange dreams.
Strangers appeared in them.
But somehow, I knew them.
Events unfolded that felt deeply, unmistakably mine.
I saw, felt, understood, and embraced everything
as if it were my own life.
More than once, I saw myself in a mirror—
but the reflection didn’t match who I am in waking life.
I have the ability to lucid dream—
to make choices and take action while dreaming.
I’m not an observer.
I’m the one living it.
Something happens—and I choose how to respond.
Back then, I believed I was acting for my own sake,
not anyone else’s.
At the time, I didn’t give these dreams much meaning.
They didn’t come often.
But each new one left a mark.
Each one—
tilted my balance in the everyday just a little more.
Sometimes, the dreams were disturbing:
someone threatened to kill me,
or death itself loomed—
close, inevitable.
But even those dreams faded eventually,
and I never asked—
what was that?
***
But I began to wonder about something else...
In every one of my transitions to the other side,
I was in the body of a Woman.
One day, I asked myself—why?
The answer was frighteningly simple.
Millions of women on this Earth
face violence every single day—
emotional, physical, financial.
A woman is often not seen as a person.
She’s seen as a role, a symbol, an object.
She lives under constant pressure:
to conform, to stay within the lines,
to be “right”—in appearance, in home, in faith, in behavior.
Her body and soul carry more than anyone should have to bear—
and still, she remains silent.
And in every transition, I felt it—
not as coincidence.
Not as karma.
But as a trace of the world itself—
a world that still hasn’t learned
to protect what gives life.
***
Not long ago, I moved to the United States.
The move was a major shock—
and that’s when the dreams began to come more often.
They grew deeper, more vivid, more precise.
I started taking them seriously.
In those moments of immersion into someone else’s reality,
I began observing the process with awareness.
Listening closely to what I felt.
And after some time, I understood:
these weren’t dreams.
They were transitions.
I am a jumper.
A conduit.
An emissary.
I move—by someone’s signal—
to the place where decisive action is needed.
Where rescue is called for—in every sense of the word.
Because a life isn’t saved only when death is near.
Sometimes, it needs saving from the wrong choice.
With each crossing, I feel it more clearly.
I move with greater precision.
More confidence on the other side.
I pick up signals from above—faster, sharper.
***
You might ask—why?
Why me?
The answer is simple.
People are different.
Some are too afraid to say no.
Or to admit what they feel.
Even the strongest can lose their footing—
and find themselves trapped by their own fear.
But me...
I have the will to choose.
A deep empathy that lets me feel it all.
I listen to the heart—
even when, in that moment,
it isn’t my own.
And I act on what it tells me.
Story 1. The Homecoming
It began with fog.
Not thick—more like damp and soft, like breath against glass.
The air clung to my face, carrying the scent of wet earth.
I was walking through city streets in the body of a young woman.
The city breathed history. It looked European, but in its spirit, it felt Russian.
I didn’t know her name, but I felt that I was her.
I was already in motion, as if continuing a path that hadn’t started with me.
Everything unfolded naturally, as if I had always known where I was going.
Inside—there was a quiet clarity of purpose.
I was walking toward him.
Back when they were teenagers, they were close.
But they never became a couple.
He had confessed his feelings more than once,
but she couldn’t respond in kind.
As if fear had paralyzed her will.
One day, while visiting his home,
she accidentally overheard a conversation between his parents:
“If he’s fallen for that girl—it’s a disaster. They cannot be together.
She’ll ruin his life. Look at who we are—and who she and her mother are!
The boy should be off studying, not chasing love…”
From that day forward, she made a silent vow
to never tell him she loved him more than life itself.
She let go of her dreams of him.
Not all at once.
With a dull ache in her chest
and the belief that she wasn’t worthy.
She let him go - to a foreign country,
to a life where there was no place for her.
And he... lost hope, but deep down, never truly let her go.
He accepted that nothing more would happen between them.
Stopped resisting— and agreed to leave.
But today—today is the day.
She wants to see him.
The fear is still there.
The same one.
But now there’s something more—
the fear of admitting it.
Admitting she loved him.
That she still loves him.
What if he doesn’t love her anymore?
What if he’s forgotten her,
and all those feelings were just a passing crush?
I hear her thoughts.
They swirl and tangle, then fall silent.
She tells herself all she wants is to see him.
To support him.
Yes.
It has to happen now—or never.
I feel a wall inside her. A blockade.
And I will walk straight through it.
She will speak.
What she must say.
Because if not, they’ll drift apart like ships in the night.
Forever.
And both will carry their sorrow
for the rest of their lives.
I see an old, beautiful building.
The plaster has long since mildewed and lost its former charm.
She enters the code at the door.
The stairwell smells of dampness.
We climb the stairs.
The door is ajar—
as if someone’s been waiting.
Inside, the apartment is dim.
Streetlights pour a warm, hazy glow
through the kitchen doorway.
A shadow shifts. We move toward it.
The room smells like old dust— like no one’s lived here for a long time.
Dan sits on the windowsill.
His name is Dan—I hear it in her mind.
Dan and Lera… Her name is Lera…
I step closer.
His face is tired, a bit thinner.
His hair longer than it used to be.
He returned recently.
His father had died.
His mother hadn’t lived with them for years.
The apartment remained—
silent, empty, stripped of life.
He looked up. Surprised.
But said nothing.
He had been waiting.
But he hadn’t believed she’d come.
We said nothing at first.
I stepped closer.
We began to speak—slowly.
About how he left.
How everything had changed.
As if we were chasing down lost time, trying to close the distance of their absence.
“It’s nothing like I imagined,” he said.
“I thought I’d manage... Start over. New life, new place. But it all fell apart.
I couldn’t even make it in time for my father’s funeral...”
I saw the wave of despair rise in him— the ground slipping from beneath his feet
after being separated from Lera.
Yes, he had tried to build new relationships.
But he couldn’t let anyone else in.
He was angry at his mother.
He’d been closer to his father.
And losing his father broke him.
She felt it.
That’s why she was here.
With him.
Lera had loved him.
For a long time.
In silence.
And I felt that love inside her—and inside myself— like a fire
spreading from the chest to every part of the body.
Together with her,
I felt a deep compassion for this man.
She would have taken all his pain into herself if she could— that’s how much she loved him.
I stayed quiet.
He needed to speak.
No, he wasn’t complaining about life.
But the loss of meaning— it was written between the lines.
Then came the moment.
He finished.
And I didn’t waste a second:
“I was afraid to say it. Always. Even when you were near. Especially when you were near.”
He looked at me—tense,
but silent...
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Story 2. The Alleyway
Emerging from the fog, I see myself walking down a narrow alley.
It’s late evening, autumn. Twilight.
The air is cool and damp, scented with wet leaves and stone.
Old buildings line the street on both sides, their display windows reflecting my image — a young woman, maybe twenty.
I’m on my way home. It’s still a long walk.
I see myself from the outside. Delicate, well-groomed.
A coat, a neat beret, a face touched with gentle makeup.
Modest. No sparkle, no glamour.
A graceful, intelligent appearance.
I don’t know what city I’m in.
But everything around breathes Europe — cobblestones, old facades, warm light spilling from windows, the cold sidewalk underfoot.
And inside her — anxiety.
I feel it in me, as if it were my own.
As we walk, I sense her thoughts.
She’s worried. Afraid of running into that guy again.
He’s been pursuing her — pushy, crude, not her kind.
There’s fear in her. And it’s growing with every step.
She’s not just afraid of seeing him.
She’s afraid he’ll step out again, block her way.
He’s already approached her before — made her stop, listen to filthy talk.
Grabbed her. Pressed in.
She endured it. With a lump in her throat.
Stayed silent. Because she feared that if she screamed — no one would come.
And he might snap, do something terrible. Irreversible.
To him, she’s a whim. A target.
Her memory flashes with what happened last year —
a girl murdered in the courtyard of her own building.
She screamed. Called for help. Begged — but no one came.
No one stepped out. No one even looked out the window.
Those memories rise up in me now, as I walk in her body.
The anxiety sharpens.
Step by step, we’re getting closer to her building.
She looks toward the entrance — barely a hundred steps away.
Almost there. Almost safe.
And then —
he steps out from the bushes...
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